


A Small Island

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Arthurian History, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Experienced Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Philosophical Argument, Scene: Kingdom of Wessex 537 AD (Good Omens), There was only one camp bed, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27725042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: After their unexpected encounter in sixth-century Wessex, the Black Knight -- ahem, Crowley -- has an arrangement he'd like Sir Aziraphale to consider.Aziraphale wants something too, and pursues it with uncharacteristic persistence.“So, given it any thought? Comin’ to some kind of arrangement?”Aziraphale seemed to be considering something in the shadows on the other side of the tent. The candle picked up white-blond lights in his hair, glinted on the Saxon glass beaker half full of cloudy mead.“I have,” he said softly, “been giving thought to a good many things.”“This en’t gonna be one of those philosophical discussions you used to drag me to, is it? ‘Cos it was always dead borin’ till they brought in the flute girls. Bangin’ on all night about the Nature Of Love, an’ that.”“Yes,” said Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 195





	A Small Island

**Author's Note:**

> The Wessex scene, brief as it is, fetches me powerfully, possibly owing to memories of cold damp tents in cold damp fields in my long-past Society for Creative Anachronism days. This is essentially a remix of the third chapter of [That You May Be Without A Mate Until You Find Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23217259/chapters/55583368), taking a different turn.
> 
> Speaking of anachronism, the cap-a-pie armour in that scene is precocious by about a millennium. Oh well. I took the trouble to make at least the clothes they remove and work around more period-appropriate.

The tent flap didn’t open. Crowley was just _there._ He might have snapped his way in, but they’d both developed a habit of frugality with miracles – it saved paperwork – and Aziraphale suspected he’d just slithered under the side of the tent in snake form.

”I expected you,” he said mildly, glancing up from his seat at a carved folding table.

“Made sure no one saw me. Been hidin’ in that pot waitin’ for the kid to leave. Arthur's sendin' 'em into the field pretty young, inn'ee?”

“He asked to come. For some unaccountable reason, he admires me.”

“Can't think why,” said Crowley with a crooked smile.

“Neither can I. Though the men seem to have some story that I speak to angels in the small hours, or might even be one myself. I tell them that I tried my hand once, but I was rather bad at it.”

Their breath coiled up in silver braids between them when they spoke, as if words had been given a physical life (knowing Aziraphale, he’d try). A small brazier wasn’t giving out much heat, and the angel still wore the fur-collared cloak over his green tunic, brooched by a Saxon-work silver piece chased with, oddly enough, a serpent design.

“They’re quite right about my _speaking to angels_ , of course, only – well, not tonight. I sent my report Upstairs already. I knew you’d be round.”

“Heaven’s all-knowin’ and that?”

“No. But it _has_ been a while. And you want something. I’ve noticed you’re persistent when you want something.”

 _If you had any idea what I want, angel._ “Made sense to me. Bloody cold winter, crops failed, everyone fightin’ over the scraps – not a lot for me to do there – ones who aren’t, spendin’ all their time in church prayin’ for deliverance – your job sorted for you. Arthur ‘n’ Mordred are gonna be slugging it out right into next winter. Thinkin’ we could take a break, just sit back.”

“I confess it appeals. But then it’s your nature to persuade, isn't it? Have some of this, it’s mead flavoured with citron zest – dear in these parts, but worth it – remember the trees at that little villa in Baiae?”

“Can’t remember anyplace warm any more. Ah, nice, that. ‘Nother few glasses, might even start to feel my feet again.”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what Crowley’s relationship was with his own feet; he never seemed too certain how to use them. “You look exhausted,” he said.

“Some’ve that’s down to you. Countin' this as payment.”

“And you’re _shivering –_ here, I’d have been tucked up already if I hadn’t been sure of seeing you. It’s only as good as a rope bed gets, but the furs aren’t as badly cured as some. Get in.”

“Ah, don’t need to – “

“Nonsense. I had my last conference with my commander of cavalry entirely in this bed, we just spread out the map over our knees – you can’t get warm any other way, we’re short of fuel as it is. In you pop.”

The bedclothes were heavy silk, the wool layered over the rope webbing thick, and the furs only smelled a little like wet dog. “Do well for y'self,” said Crowley, pulling their welcome heaviness around him.

“I have standards, dear.”

They sat side by side, a little stiffly, Crowley’s arms crossed on his knees, containing him; Aziraphale spreading his cloak for another layer of warmth.

“There we are, perfectly comfortable. Another? Just set this candle over on the side table” – it was a folding one as well, with crossed, carved legs – “now, tell me, how long have you been here?”

“In Britain? Ah, let’s think, well since Uther took up with Myrddin anyway, spread around that story he was the Boss’s son. Raised his stock a little. They don’t know how lucky they are Boss doesn’t have a son. Yet.”

“I have always considered that an empty threat. Though the Nephilim did cause a spot of trouble. Let’s see, what have I got here – dried spiced apples, that seems like your sort of thing – “

“Sticks to fangsss. Ngk. Bit more of this.”

“Quite. So, all the dissent and sedition? That was your doing? It almost broke the peace with Maelgwn of Gwynedd, the way those rumours flew about the Queen carrying on with him.”

“Not me, angel. No knowin’ what people get up to in bed.”

The silence was long enough to be a little awkward.

“Arthur’s a good man,” said the angel finally. “He’s made it known that if Merlin -- that's how he's styling himself now -- were in fact the Devil’s son, he would hold him in the same honour. And by now he’s sent every signal that the Queen is absolved any… indiscretion. You learn to read court politics.” They both were old hands at it by now: the lips that spoke one thing and grimly smiled another, the signs of favour that were quiet threats. “It’s his hope that this small island will become a source of light, a beacon of peace in the world, and I mean to help him do it.”

“By clankin’ around in heavy armament with a sword bigger’n’ the one She gave you.”

“A sword lends force to a moral argument.”

"Yeah, ‘member how that worked out for you back in the day.”

“Sarky.” Aziraphale rose and broke the wax seal on another bottle. Crowley tried to pretend he didn’t feel the loss of his warmth, the sudden emptiness in the little cocoon of silks and furs. It was damnably cold (he was the authority here: Hell’s frigid, the walls trickling with condensed damp, and sometimes the heat of the sulphur you’d sucked in made you thirsty and you’d want to lick them but bad idea), he could feel the chill coming up from the ground. The angel was a little spot of radiant heat, a faint glow in the near darkness not because he was angelic but because serpent eyes see into the infra-red. It helps them strike prey.

Crowley did not want him to be _prey._

“So, given it any thought? Comin’ to some kind of arrangement?”

Aziraphale seemed to be considering something in the shadows on the other side of the tent. The candle picked up white-blond lights in his hair, glinted on the Saxon glass beaker half full of cloudy mead.

“I have,” he said softly, “been giving thought to a good many things.”

“This en’t gonna be one of those _philosophical discussions_ you used to drag me to, is it? ‘Cos it was always dead borin’ till they brought in the flute girls. Bangin’ on all night about the Nature Of Love, an’ that.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. He set down the beaker, and Crowley wondered for a moment if this were going to be some sort of showdown, if he’d crossed a line with his suggestion and the angel had learned to be wily, put him off his guard with – was that the third glass? It wasn’t all that strong –

A cottony forelock brushed his cheek, right over the serpent sigil, and the angel’s mead-sticky lips barely touched the corner of his mouth. Crowley jumped back, half out of the camp bed, splashing mead into the coarse bearskin.

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have startled you. I had been considering a – … different sort of arrangement.”

“What the _hell,_ angel? What’re you on about?”

“What you said about not knowing what people get up to in – um, bed. Kissing, and so on. You’ve done that, haven’t you? And the rest?”

“Yeah, done the _rest_ , angel. Comes with the territory.” Crowley rubbed the side of his face as if the kiss had left a mark. “Gettin’ curious, are we? Walk on the wild side? Lie about it later and see if you get away with it, like the sword? She just gave you a pass on that one.”

“No – I – it’s a way they show love for each other, it has been since the beginning – it can be misused by Hell, but it doesn’t _have_ to be – and angels are beings of love –“

“Oh, so you’re going to show a nasty old demon how much you _love_ him? With your prick or your mouth or whatever it is you plan to use? Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.”

“I – that’s unkind, Crowley.”

“Consult your manual. 'm a demon. We’re not known for kindness.”

“But you’ve done me a great many.”

“Business courtesies. Like I just proposed. Came to see if you’d given it a second thought, and you’re just tryin’ to fook with me, en’t you?”

“Not the word I would have used,” said Aziraphale, and was that _amusement_ in his tone? The blue eyes twinkled a little in a sudden flare of the candle; then the flame guttered, abruptly leaving the tent in near darkness.

“What made you think I'd even -- ?” _Consider it? Other than the sign painted on my forehead that says ”I want you”?_

“Well – I confess I’ve noticed – so many times over the centuries – that if I mentioned hankering for any little thing, somehow you saw to it, and I –

“This en’t a _little_ thing, angel. What if you Fell?”

“I don’t think so,” said Aziraphale, and the elfin little twinkle was audible in his tone, if no longer visible. "Though you could say you'd done your, um, _damnedest._ If anyone asked." More quietly: "Because, you see -- if it _were_ – actually love?”

They’ve had these sorts of conversations before. Just not about this. Aziraphale parsing the Almighty’s intent, _you could assume that was the point, I suppose, but looked at another way –_ there was always at least one _other way – she might have intended something entirely different. Do try these figs, they’re perfectly ripe._

“Angels don’t love demons.” It didn’t sound any more convincing than all the times he’d said it to himself.

“If that’s the case, then either you’ve ceased to be a demon after all, or I am no longer an angel. Shall we test the hypothesis? You have Hellfire at your fingertips, and the priest carries Holy Water, in case someone requires Extreme Unction. He sleeps lightly.” The angel made to push the furs back.

“ _No,_ Aziraphale – “

“Then we’ve dispensed with your foolish assertion. My dear. You have always been my companion. Heaven leaves me to manage, you know, and turns a deaf ear when I try to explain the complications. Like this business of cancelling each other out. I’m not sure your solution is tenable, but – I _am_ tempted.”

“Well, back on familiar ground, then. Get you to sign a statement for Downstairs, take the rest of the month off.”

“Dear. Not only in that way.”

Aziiraphale reached toward him, halted as if he’d met a glass wall. “You were there when I doubted myself. When I needed to learn that the mortals were more than just a battleground for Hell and Heaven.” This time his hand closed the distance, rested lightly on Crowley’s where he held himself snugged tightly in the covers. “You took the trouble to know them. And – well, they said that Lucifer Morningstar was the most beautiful of us before he Fell, but you, Fallen or not, have become more beautiful in my eyes. Precisely because of who you are.”

Crowley smiled thinly. “Persistent when _you_ want something, en’t you?” he said. “Argue your case like Socrates. Like a Gnostic high on a three-day fast. Like a demon.”

Aziraphale smiled too. “I've seen you. You were Pallas, weren’t you? Back after Troy, when you took an interest in that Greek general. Taught him to talk people around. The art of the clever tongue. This is not that.” Fingers closing over his own. “I love you, and exactly _because_ I am a creature of Heaven, I want to share it with you.”

“Not looking for charity, angel.”

“It’s not. I want the other things too… the way you smell, the colour of the light in your eyes, the cleverness of your hands. I think of being touched. Touching. I’ve sampled all their other joys -- most of them in your company, I may say - and I haven’t Fallen. I want it to be you.”

Weakening. “Too dangerous, angel. You want to try it, I think that page likes you. Reckon they’d spot you a little boy, specially in the field.” It would have been more convincing if he’d withdrawn his hand, but he found he couldn’t.

“That’s horrid, Crowley, and you know it.”

“ ‘N’ I’m not?”

“No, you are not. I won’t have you saying things like that about yourself. You are beautiful, and kinder than you ever own to, and loyal – “

“ _Damn it!”_ This time he did snatch back his hand, hissing out the words, as if the angel’s touch had suddenly burned. “Been protectin’ you forever – from Hell, from Heaven, from _me_ – you can’t ask me to stop now – “

“I don’t _want_ protection from you, Crowley.”

“Then you’re bloody _stupid_ – “

“ _Please_ , don’t be cross -- ”

Hands over his eyes – the serpent slits hidden, always an improvement – but acutely aware of the glossy black of his nails, the sharpness that couldn’t be trimmed or filed away.

“Sorry, angel – I’m just tired, so _tired,_ and this cold damp bloody island – “

“And I’ve upset you. I – go if you’d rather, then. I’ll consider this… arrangement.”

“I don’t want to go,” said Crowley presently in a very small voice. The silence before Aziraphale spoke again stretched out even longer.

“Stay here and be warm for the night, then,” he said finally. “I won’t press for more. Come close. I’ll keep the cold away.”

The angel pulled the furs and silks up over them, carefully staying a few inches apart, the trapped heat of their bodies their only embrace. But at some point between waking and sleep, when the world flickered in and out of focus, he felt the soft thick fingers lace shyly back through his own.

* * *

When he came entirely to himself, they were already making love: the angel's hand under his tunic, resting lightly in the small of his back; lips tracing a ghostly reverence over his own, the tip of a tongue still sweet with yeasty mead barely touching them. He could tell even without opening his eyes that the watchfires had burned lower outside, and that a pale moon had risen high enough to filter light down through the roof of the tent – a commander’s pavilion, roomy enough for Aziraphale’s writing table and three-legged stool and the precious books he seemed to need with him even on campaign

He’d been dreaming. And in the dream it was all right to kiss the angel, because he’d never Fallen, and they were seated on the Wall on a nice day – all the days had been nice – watching the humans discover each other. _This fruit tastes sweet and this one sour. What do you taste like?_ It wasn’t clear what the answer to that was, but they seemed to enjoy finding out. _We should try that,_ he found himself saying to the fretful cherub whose mortal form was so soft and pink and comfortable, revealing something about who and what he was in his essence, as their mortal forms always did. Kind and careful and ever so particular, just as he was awkward and sharp and somehow hungry without knowing what he hungered for. There just were – questions, and this was one they could answer –

“Are you sure?” whispered Aziraphale, and he realized he, not the angel, had been the first to put their lips together. “You didn’t seem quite awake.”

 _Let me say I dreamt it all,_ he thought. _That’s what I’ll tell myself._ “I think I have to be,” he breathed.

“I will honour No any time you speak the word.”

“More’n She ever did, then.”

The angel let the blasphemy pass. Opened his mouth no further than someone blowing out a candle, letting it wander over lips, cheeks, eyes. Trailed fingertips around to his lean-muscled belly, making the fine hairs on his flanks prickle up.

“You can touch me if you like,” he said.

Crowley would like. Except that it was overwhelming to be _allowed:_ to ask those questions, _what do you taste like, what do you feel like there where your arms are plump and muscled, there where the cord stands out below your ear when you turn your head just so to look at me. You always look at me._ Mortal temptations were avid and sweaty and groping and headlong; you wanted it done and sealed quickly, another one in the bag. He needed this to stretch out forever, with the luxury of knowing that he could say _stop_ and that he never wanted to.

“You can do whatever you do with _them,_ ” said Aziraphale. “You see things like the murals at Pompeii, the redware vases – it shows you what happens but doesn’t really tell you _how._ ”

“What I do with them’s just business, angel. You don’t want that.”

“I want,” said Aziraphale, “anything that’s you,” lips outlining the shapes of fangs that had somehow made their presence apparent, cherishing them as if they were precious works of art and not the badges of damnation. The careful glamour that kept Crowley’s appearance reasonably human had slipped; he squeezed his eyes shut again, turned his face into the silks, knowing the whites had disappeared, that they’d taken on the unwinking citrine glow that was all serpent.

“ _Anything,”_ Aziraphale repeated. “Look at me.”

The soft hand lifted from his flank, tipped his chin up.

“Show me your beautiful eyes.”

The last time he’d wept was the day he rose from the burning pit – even in the Flood he could feel only rage, at Golgotha he’d gone dead inside – but that undid him. His sharp cheekbones were wet as he pulled the angel close, into a long, soft embrace, a kiss that refused to break, as if he were trying to take the angel’s essence into himself, take Heaven back.

Making An Effort, they’d called it, something that the angels had done when they got children with mortal women (and didn’t that come a cropper), something Crowley did because his job called for it, but this time there was no _effort:_ it happened of itself, a part of his body more sensitive than his eyes to light or his lips to the angel’s tender suckling. Aziraphale had made the same one, and they were pressed together through bunched cloth almost too tightly to move, the division between _I_ and _thou_ becoming meaningless. When Aziraphale gave a little surprised cry, _oh, it’s – a lot,_ he felt the sensation in his own belly; when he crushed himself up against the soft thigh, pressed into it, it was Aziraphale who uttered the long moan that was caught in Crowley’s throat, uttered it _into_ his throat because they couldn’t tear their mouths apart.

“How do we – “ Aziraphale lifted away a little, arched into the finger that had slipped under his tunic to trace the groove of his spine, where Crowley had only a string of bony knobs that that angel counted off, one by one. “Do. I need – “

“Something easy,” whispered Crowley. “Something soft. Here.” He skated his hand around the fleshy bulge of hip, between the soft thighs still covered in cross-gartered wool. “Get out of these.” He helped, tugging the trews away to puddle at their feet in the heat beneath the silks. “Open just a little. There.”

The skin was smooth and hairless where the angel’s thighs met, the little bulges of flesh at his groin parting slightly to let his hand in. “You can take me here, between your legs. It won’t hurt. Easy. Like a kid’s first time.”

Busy fingers helped him fumble with his own leather leggings, which caught and twisted at his knee. _Smooth, Crowley_. _Won’t hurt,_ he’d said, but he was painfully rigid, leaving spots of slick on his own belly as he wriggled free. _Really smooth._ There was just enough moonlight to show the angel’s eyes closed, the paleness of his hair, his brows.

“Too bony for this, me,” he said softly, “but you, angel, oh, you feel – “ the heat and plushness made him pulse, so that he had to pause and hold back. “I. Might finish very fast.”

“It’s barely past midnight, we won’t have to be done. I just heard the watch change. Oh, Crowley, it’s good.”

He could feel the sturdy hips beginning to rock and receive him; moved slowly, trying to keep silent as the drag of soft skin made him shudder. Aziraphale nudged into him with an Effort he found himself longing to stroke, to kiss – trapped between his hard belly and the angel’s pillow of stomach, finding this angle and that. A little gush made him realize he needed to be ready, and at a sudden straining movement he covered the angel’s mouth with his own, gulping down the sound of his pleasure, thrusting himself to completion.

“ _God,_ angel. ‘N’ She can stuff it if She’s not happy about it. I love you.”

* * *

“It’s more than I hoped for,” said Aziraphale, “but I _did_ hope.”

“What, doin’ this? Mortals do talk it up. Doesn’t always live up to expectations.”

“My dear. It’s – well, it’s undignified, but I think that makes it that much -- holier, somehow. Like the passing of the bread and wine, a simple human thing. Nothing terrible or grand." One hand stroked Crowley in a way that was neither grand nor terrible, only almost unbearably tender. “But I meant love. There were always – flashes of it when you were near.”

“Could hardly bloody stand it sometimes. Just wanted to carry you off. Wanted to – um, like this.”

“ _Oh_. I didn’t know those could feel – may I try?”

“Lots’ve things, angel. I – you made an Effort, here, you’ve got the whole suite?”

“Suite? Ah – “

“Lift up here. Little further. Knee up – yes, you do – “

“Oh my _goodness_.”

“But not mine.”

“I’ll quarrel with you about that. What else can we do?”

“Hungry little angel.”

“I may have wanted you for a long – oh, I didn’t imagine how _that_ would feel – “

"Art've the clever tongue." And then, “Mmmpmphmphh,” said Crowley, because his mouth was full.

* * *

“The Queen _did_ sleep with Maelgwn, you know. The laws are clear, but – well, the King can’t be at odds with Gwynedd right now. And she was so lonely, Crowley, I’m beginning to understand. They sent her to marry him, like you’d sell a horse, when her heart was back there in Maelgwn’s kingdom. You could barely understand her accent.”

“Smoothed it over, din’t they?”

“I spoke in Arthur’s ear. Was that _tempting_ , do you think? In her unique case it was not just adultery but treason, you know, capital offence, and I reminded him that he was born, and came to rule, because a woman was false to her husband and spared the penalty. That we couldn’t know Her plan. So... The laws allow trial by combat, and Arthur permitted Maelgwn to be her champion. We knew the accuser hadn’t a chance.”

“A sword lends force to a moral argument?”

There was no avoiding it now. The sky was lightening.

“Milord?” A juvenile voice, outside the tent. Crowley started.

“Sh. It’s all right. Alawn’s been told not to enter without leave. It wouldn’t do to have him walk in when I’m – talking to Upstairs. _Await me,_ ” he called in a carrying voice to the page. “Here, I suppose you’ll have to – “

“Just slither off. Easy-peasy."

They were embracing again, kissing desperately, before Crowley had the last syllable quite out.

“Well, I haven’t Fallen,” said the angel with brittle lightness. “So you’ll have to write some sort of heavily embroidered dispatch.”

“‘N’ I haven’t Risen.”

“Perhaps you needn’t.”

“Be nice to miss all those meetings.”

“It’s a good place, isn’t it? Even with all the – the foolish things and the cruelties, they – we could live like them. I wouldn’t mind.”

“What, no lookin’ out over Her creation from on high?”

“The view is overrated.”

“I don’t want to go,” said Crowley.

“You said that before. But you’ve a report to write.”

“What do we _do?”_

“What we’ve always done, dear. You wile, I thwart. And perhaps – ah, every so often – there’ll be a small island of peace for us. If we’re discreet. So that there’s. Ah. No trial.”

“What about my proposal?”

“You hadn’t got round to _that – “_

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, perhaps just this once.”

“Normally I’d be incitin’ the locals to harry your army.”

“And I’d be responding with definitive action. The moral argument, and so on.”

“I’ll go back in my windy keep and brood instead. Tell ’em you thwarted Hell out of me. So to speak.”

“I’ll move my troops into the next province. Mention some unrest. It will come to nothing. Alawn?” The angel, fully dressed again, put his head out the tent flap. “Send the scouts to me. We’ll prepare to strike camp. I’ve had a message in the night.” He glanced over his shoulder; looked sad, but resigned, and added “Come back afterward and make my posset. I fear I’m feeling the damp.”

The troops knew Sir Aziraphale sometimes got messages in odd ways at odd times. But he was considered a very holy man, and surely the messengers were from God. The rumour in the camp as they loaded the waggons was that he had spent all the night closeted with one.

His eyes were distant as they set off overland, like someone who had seen the Divine.

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> The old medieval-studies undergrad in me dragged up some proposed roots of the Arthur story; various early versions mention other names in the role of Lancelot, and I went with the tributary king Maelgwn of Gwynedd, because of Arthur's invincible Welsh roots. At this exact point in English history, the Saxons had spread over south Britain, the earlier kingdoms had been driven back inside the borders of Wales, and fragile peace was crumbling under a bitter winter and a famine.
> 
> Fun fact: Guinevere is a Gallicization of the Welsh words _gwyn-hwyvar_ , White Owl, an insight I owe to Mary Stewart; the adulterous Queen in the great Fourth Branch of the Mabinogion (the Welsh national epic) is named Blodeuwedd, "flower-face," a kenning for owl. A direct line between the two is a hill I'm willing to at least fight on.
> 
> Say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


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